


Disguise

by gone_to_fight_the_fairies



Category: State Farm - Fandom, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crossover, David Haydn-Jones - Freeform, F/M, Fluff, State Farm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 23:24:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17313812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gone_to_fight_the_fairies/pseuds/gone_to_fight_the_fairies
Summary: After escaping the Apocalypse world, Ketch drops all contact. Bitter and saddened, the reader bumps into Ketch on her latest case, but in the most unexpectant way possible, finding that Ketch is living under a new disguise. Ketch will have to break character in order to aid your hunt.





	Disguise

Suamico, Wisconsin, just North of Green Bay. The spotted, grey skies poked with sun rays, illuminating the bay abbas sea of rich emeralds. The main street, lined with shops, was ornamented in green and yellow up and down the walk. Patriotic Packers fans demonstrating their pride from the prior night's victory.

If only they’d known what occurred in the home of their quarterback afterward.

You rotated the steering wheel, whirling sharply onto a secluded street lined in extravagant mansions, growing in magnitude further the venture. Traces of caution tape and broken glass on the lawn decked the last home. A senior woman stood over the mess in a black skirt and half apron. Above her, the remembrance of the missing window left only with shards erect from the frame. 

The slam of your car door prompted a violent jolt; eyes narrowing feline-like upon approach. You held up your badge, and the woman’s expression scrunched. “FBI. Is Mr. Rodgers home?”

The woman bowed her head, leading you through the foyer and halls of the cream-induced mansion. Male bickering echoed through the walls, booming as the walls transformed into a wooden archway, opening to a bright entertainment space with large windows that fell victim to the mid-morning light. The broken window revealed itself, and stray pieces resigned under the window seal and furniture. The chaos was the least of one man’s concerns.

"Well, I was not expecting to get an arch-rival today, but..." A man laterally extended his arms in an aggressive stance towards another in khakis. The movement stretched the blue sleeves of his extravagant suit. "Here we are."

“Ketch?” His name rolled off your tongue, hitting the floor with the magnitude of a bowling ball.

The man tensed, as did the conversation. His jaw-slacked as his eyes flickered to yours. In a beat, he returned his prior proposition. "It's my nickname," he told the men. "Gabriel," he curved his index and middle fingers, "'Ketch' Jones." He forced a chuckle, eyeing you urgency and a blue glimmer of curiosity. 

Between them, stood Aaron Rodgers, ignorant to the heating situation, staring towards the opposing wall with a thousand-yard stare. Rugburn on his chin, and a bruising jaw was nothing compared to the defeat in his eyes. "Who are you?" Rodgers asked, crossing his arms in a defensive stance that was to remind everyone that it was his domain. 

Upon hearing her employers' voice, his maid scurried to his side, dancing on her toes as she whispered.

You pulled out your faux FBI badge. "Agent Singer. The Bureau is taking lead in the investigation."

Ketch stepped in. "Excuse us a moment." He strutted forward, putting a hand on your shoulder to lead you out of the room, back into the hallway.

"What in the name of the Packers are you doing here?" Ketch maintained his American accent, glancing over your shoulder. 

Your fingers plucked a silver coin from your pocket. Ketch's eyes fell to the currency, as did his expression. His expression hung heavy. "This was no ordinary attack."

"Take it."

Ketch rolled his eyes but seized the metal between your pressed fingers. "Now that that business is out of the way, what exactly attacked my client?”

"Client? I'm sorry, are you with (State Farm)?”

"Don't be preposterous... I'm his sports agent. That khaki-wearing buffoon is attempting to poach my client of his active insurance. Now back to my previous inquiry? Miss me, hm?"

“No!” You answered too quickly. Ketch narrowed his gaze, biting back his tongue. "I think a-"

The maid drifted into the hall, eyeing you and Ketch as she hurried past. 

"A shifter attacked (your) client; which we’ll be coming back to by the way."

Ketch licked his drying lips. His eyes drifted to the left in a strained fashion. "I suggest, going out and finding it then."

"Y-you..." you stumbled. "you don't care?" 

Your expeditious chuckle faltered the stale air. "I don't believe that. Look me in the eye and tell me."

Ketch forced his eyes up part way to your shoulder. A magnet with resisting forceful energy, they bounced back. "I have different priorities." 

Your heart faltered. "I need to interview your (client)." You pushed past Ketch, walking back to the room. “Mr. Rodgers,” you addressed the athlete. “May I ask you a few questions about your incident?”

He looked to Ketch, who was hot on your trail. Something in the exchange made Rodgers agree.

Neither Ketch or the State Farm agent budged. “Alone.”

“Yeah, khakis,” Ketch shooed the man away using a similar tactic with you. “This is a private matter.”

Ketch spun on his heels, returning. "You too, Mr. Jones." You glanced at him from your peripheral vision. 

Ketch halted, his faltering features stared a long minute, watching you with sorrow. "Right." He slowly turned back, disappearing into the hall. You only continued when you heard the echo of his soles fade out completely.

Your gaze lifted. “Can you run me through the incident.” You eyed the window. “It happened here, correct.”

Rodgers kept his eyes forward. “I was sitting here on my phone, when someone shot through the window.” 

“You heard a gunshot?” You strolled over to the shattered glass, kneeling down to pick at the long shards. “There isn't a bullet in the report."

“The police say it’s the only reasonable explanation. What else is there? Some guy climbed up and busted through the window?” 

“I’m interested in the truth," you confided, standing up to meet Rodger's eye.

“I… I don’t know what happened, but there wasn't a gun. He was just... suddenly there.”

“Did you get a look at the intruder?”

“No,” Rodger's eyes glossed over. “But he was strong. He had my face down and wouldn’t let up. Rosie, my maid, was the only thing that stopped him.”

“She’s, uh, pretty small to take out an intruder. I'd like to ask her some questions."

"I let her go home. She's pretty shaken."

"Where does live?"

 

The office floor appeared haunted. Half the ceiling lights were switched off at half past ten. Grey cubicles absent of color and employees left the office stranded. A door with the plaque 'Gabriel Jones' was cracked open, and a familiar American accent drifted past your ears.

"What do you want? Ten years, twenty years, a lifestyle brand, oh your own bowling league? Private blimp, you got it."

"Gabriel 'Ketch' Jones," you purred, leaning in the doorway of his office. 

Ketch's eyes fixated on you, muttering something to the other line before dropping the call. "This is," his British accent rolled out. He coughed, bringing his adopted accent back. "unexpectant. Um, please sit," he uttered. "Business or pleasure?"

"Can it ever be both?"

Ketch's mouth twitched. "That seems fitting to us. Have you located your shifter?"

"No." The air to your tone deflated, shifting darkly. "It killed Rosie." Ketch's jaw slacked, and he couldn't quite pick it back up. "I found her in her apartment. It looked like it was lying in wait for her to return."

"Devastating," Ketch muttered, looking down at his hands. "I'm sorry you found her."

Your eyes focused on a silver trinket on Ketch's desk, failing to resist the image of the corpse, losing yourself in the moment. Ketch coughed, reeling you back. “So, you’ve come seeking expertise?” He attempted to lighten the mood.

“You never said good-bye." It revealed itself as a breathless strand of words. It floated in the air until your words began to pour. "No forwarding address... your phone was cut off-"

Ketch straightened his posture, eyes darting to the contracts on his desk. "It's not for the reasons you think."

"Then what? For what reason did you," you paused, flailing your arm at him, "become Mr. Sports Agent? I mean, how much do you know about football-"

“I work with deals and contracts, I don’t need to know how the pigskin is made-” The phone rang, jarring you both. Ketch’s expression soured, seizing the phone and pressing it against his ear. “I told you I would call you back!” 

You frowned, rising from your chair. As Ketch’s bickering filled the office, you made for the door, releasing some of the noise. 

You missed the way Ketch’s eyes darted to your back, distressed and panicked. He hung up the phone, disregarding the caller completely. “Wait!” His voice, filled with his British melody. You turned, and his eyes fixated on you hastily. “Paperwork was really more of Mick’s thing.” 

“You’re really gonna bring up that sore subject?”

Ketch gulped, and you waited for him to speak; to say anything. "I want to help."

 

 

Sitting shotgun in your car, Ketch patiently waited while you both sat lookout across the street from his client’s home. A jogger passed by, then a cat, and later the sound of two cats hissing and mingling. But none of it created enough distraction to simmer the tension.

“What makes you certain that it’s a shifter or that it’ll return?” Ketch's gaze kept leaning to you, despite his best efforts.

“Retinal Flares on the first victim's home surveillance. Of all three victims, Rodger’s is the only one to survive." 

You stared out the windshield, while Ketch's eyes remained on you. "How've you been holding up?"

"No." You snapped your gaze onto him. "If you get to be mysterious then so do I."

Ketch sighed, shifting. "The British Men of Letter's did not cease to exist after your friends in flannel butchered me. They simply dropped their pursuit of American conquer. They have not, however, forgiven me for my failure... and departure."

Your stomach bobbed through rough seas. "They're hunting you."

Ketch nodded. "If I had stayed, they would’ve returned to your bunker. And I’m not quite certain that’s a fight I’m willing to burden you with.” His eyes held yours for a moment, and you opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. "Anyhow," Ketch continued, unbuttoning his jacket. He cleared his throat. "I had to perfect this American asshole accent to keep my cover."

"And Gabriel? Of all of the names, you chose the one person..."

"A tribute." Ketch held tight to his American accent. "He gave his life to save everyone, including you." There was a moment where you locked eyes, and the whole world stopped. 

Red caught your eye in the review mirror. Familiar khakis and black shoes paced down the opposite side of the street. 

“A little late for undermining me.” Ketch spat, glaring at the state farm agent. 

“Maybe this has nothing to do with insurance,” you mentioned, watching the man jog up the lawn, knocking on the front door. Aaron answered the door and the agent pushed inside. A scream followed. 

You and Ketch dashed across the street in a blink. The door remained wide-open, expelling Rodger’s screams as you pushed forward with raised guns, filled with silver bullets. You stepped over the red shirt and khakis, held together only by shredded skin. You gagged. “You’ve heard the Devil Wears Prada?” You asked Ketch. “Shifters wear Khakis.”

Following the path to find two Aaron Rodgers laying on the floor. Both appeared equally startled with minor injuries. You pulled out the coin from your pocket, slowly trailing to the Aaron closest to you. You brushed it upon the back of his hand. No reaction. The other Aaron lunged at you, a hiss breaking past its lips. Shots rang out, and the creature fell onto you. Dead. 

“Ugh,” you groaned, hitting the floor. The two-hundred-pound shifter crushing you. Ketch hastily fell to you, rolling the dead-weight off. 

"What the hell is going on?!" The real Aaron Rodgers expelled, bugged eyed and rocking on the floor. 

"You're were attacked," Ketch's British accent returned, offering a hand to his client to stand. "By a shifter."

Rodgers stared at Ketch in astonishment but grabbed his hand. "You're not just an agent, are you?"

"I moonlight as a hero, yes."

You snorted. When Ketch shot you daggers, it sent warmth through you.

 

 

“Well, I am pumping with adrenaline,” Ketch whispered to you as you both left the house, past a swarm of cops entering the house. Crossing the street, you smiled at Ketch. 

“Contracts don’t do that for you?”

“Can’t say they do." Ketch stopped at your car. "But I need to stay out of the game. You need to stay away.”

“Ketch, we’ve defeated the Men of Letter’s before-”

“No, you defeated me. The old men are definitely not a pint of stout. They are the reason for my… less than admirable attributes; imagine how much more ruthless they are than I.”

“They already know where the bunker is.”

“They take no interest in it otherwise.” Solemn, Ketch strode up to you, cupping your face. “I’ve made many mistakes. Putting you at risk, again, will not be one of them. There’s too much traction here, thanks to the shifter. I’ll find a new cover.”

“How about Kansas?”

Ketch smiled solemnly. "I don't know how I ever resisted you." He rested his lips against your forehead.

Your eyes fluttered shut, and Ketch took the distraction as an opportunity to pull away. 

“Maybe come somewhere in lower Kansas, where someone can check up on you.” 

Ketch eyed you, a spark igniting. “Maybe somewhere in the rural panhandle of Oklahoma. It offers a tad more distance.”


End file.
